Soft Spots
by Scribere Est Agere
Summary: Give me that little kiss. Give me your hand. Sequel to Sticks or Stones.


**Title:** Soft Spots  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers: **After _Purgatory_  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Give me that little kiss. Give me your hand.

Sequel to _Sticks or Stones_

/

They released him the following day, two cracked ribs and all. Alex stayed with him all night, head on his bed and bent at a weird angle until she awoke with a start, rubbing her neck and quickly wiping away some drool. She winced. Then, with a cursory glance at The Patient, she shifted in her chair and curled up best she could and went back to sleep. Bobby barely closed his eyes. He lay on his side, mesmerized by the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair lay across her cheek, the way she…stayed. She stayed. All night.

What, he wondered, had he done to deserve her?

In the morning she was stiff and cranky, but he was more so, anxious to be released, anxious to get back to work. He endured the doctor's checkup with ill-natured nature.

"You have someone to drive you home?" the doctor asked.

Bobby glanced at Eames, who rolled her eyes.

"Yes," he said. "When can I—"

"You're looking at a month off work. At least."

"_What?_"

"You need to rest, Mr. Goren. Broken ribs—"

"_Cracked_—"

"_Still_—"

"No _way_, forget it."

The doctor glanced at Eames, who shrugged. _What? What? Think he listens to me? Yeah. Right._

She helped him with his coat, smirking when he flinched. But her eyes were soft, and her hands, when she smoothed down the front of his shirt, were softer.

"You're a sucky patient," she said. She removed her hands but he could still feel the warm spots they left behind.

"Yeah? When was the last time _you_ were in the hospital?" He was grumpy, restless, twitchy, but so glad she was there.

"You mean before Jo Gage?" she said and his mouth dropped, his eyes widened.

"Oh god, I'm not thinking straight, sorry, sorry…"

She couldn't help but smile.

"Don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it. He'd never _stopped_ worrying about it.

She pushed him in his wheelchair through narrow olive green hallways, clang of metal trays, soft squeaky shoes. He was heavy and the chair uncooperative, but she managed. The hospital's smells, its sounds, its oppressive walls cut to the bone. She couldn't get out fast enough.

She blinked in bright sunlight, shaded her eyes, stared down at Bobby's bent head, resigned. She fought the urge to slip her hand into the collar of his shirt, just there, run her fingers along the taut tendons, caress the soft muscles.

No, none of that.

As difficult as her last stay had been, it was the second last time she'd been a patient that remained with her the longest.

/

Her sister was with her in the delivery room, something they had decided as soon as she'd conceived. Her sister. The mother. The coach. The very _peppy_ coach.

Push Alex. Push. Push. You can do it. I see his head. Oh my…_oh my god Alex_…

She just wanted him out out out…After three agonizing hours she had vague fuzzy memories of attempting coherent conversations with people. What people? Didn't matter. Someone, anyone.

"How much longer?"

"You're close…very close," the doctor said. "You're doing a great job, Alex." Her sister squeezed her hand, bounced up on the balls of her feet. Alex wanted, suddenly, to slap her. Hard.

Another push. And another. She groaned, guttural. It felt like she had the kitchen sink in there, wedged.

"Can't you just…help a bit?" she asked. Translation: Can't you just _fucking pull him out already_?

That request was met with some good-natured laughter. No one took her up on the offer. She had to keep pushing pushing _pushing_ all on her own.

Thanks, guys. Thanks a fucking lot.

_Why on earth did I agree to this? What kind of drugs was I taking when I thought this might be a good idea? I swear if anyone ever asks me to do this _ever _again_—

Then suddenly, miraculously, the pain stopped, fast like a twig snapping. She felt a great rush of slippery skin and limbs and water and god knows what else pass between her thighs and someone was laughing or crying or maybe clapping and there was a flurry of activity around her and then there was a goddamn _baby_ on her chest.

She held him for a total of three minutes while they checked her vitals and the baby's and her brother-in-law cut the umbilical cord. In that incredibly short period of time she caught her breath and frantically memorized every inch of him: his soft, gentle weight in her arms…his mewling mouth…his red face…Her fingers traced his cheeks, his hands, his fingers (ten) his hair (dark) his pointy head, the fontanel (the soft spot there, the thready gentle pulse over and over and over through the impossibly thin membrane) until her sister with her eyes dark and anguished and ecstatic and pleading took him from her and he was gone, no longer hers, if he ever really was.

She watched her sister and her brother-in-law and their new son and she smiled and rested her hands on her still puffy and sore abdomen and wished with all her might that someone who loved _her_ that much was here.

Bobby, she thought, not for the first time that day. Oh, Bobby.

/

She was right, as usual: He was a sucky patient.

He called her one night, late, close to midnight. He thought he'd wake her but she soundly oddly jazzed up and alert when she answered. For one horrible moment he wondered if he'd interrupted something, like…a date.

"It's me," he said after a pause.

"Are you okay?" she said quickly.

"Yeah." He sighed. He couldn't help it.

"What? Are you hurting?"

"A bit." A lot, actually. Deep tissue bruising, the doctor had said. He couldn't find a good spot to lie on and the painkillers wore off too fast.

"When was the last time you took your meds?"

Meds. He wanted to laugh but knew it would hurt too much and she would ask why he was laughing and he'd have to explain and that just took too much energy. "Uh…an hour ago…?"

"And you're still in pain?" she sounded alarmed. He smiled.

"No, I'm all right. Really. I just…Why are you awake?"

He pictured her shrugging. "I don't know. The case, I guess. I can't…get my head around it."

"Tell me."

"Bobby."

"What? I'm bored. Humour me."

"You should be _sleeping_."

"You, too."

"You called _me_."

"And a good thing I did, because you were awake," he said quickly. "Maybe I can…help?"

She sighed, but he could tell she was smiling.

"Tell me," he said, leaning back against his bed. He shifted, shifted again.

"It'll take awhile."

"That's okay."

"Are you comfortable?"

He grinned.

"I am now."

/

Everyone was there, gathered around her bed, talking and laughing and making those indescribable new-baby cooing sounds. Her parents, her sister, brother, nieces. Her youngest niece, the five-year-old, was the only one paying any attention to her at the moment. The girl was leaning against the bed, staring at her exhausted, rumpled, swollen Aunty.

"Aunt Alex?" she said.

"Yes?"

"You just had a baby."

"I did. Your new cousin."

"It's a boy." The girl wrinkled her nose. Alex nodded. God she was tired. She could sleep for days, she thought. She put her hands on her stomach, felt the extra flesh there, loose and empty.

"Aunt Alex?"

"Yes?"

"He's not _your_ baby, right?"

Alex stopped breathing for a second. She swallowed hard against whatever was bubbling up in her throat. The lights were too bright and the noises too … noisy. She was going to cry soon and she really didn't want to. She wanted to wait until she was alone for that. She could cry for days, she thought.

"No, honey. He was inside me, but no, he's not mine."

The girl leaned forward, suddenly very serious.

"Aunt Alex?"

"Yes?"

"Does your vagina hurt?"

Alex closed her eyes briefly. Do not laugh, she told herself. Do not cry, either. Later, later you can do all those things. She opened her eyes and looked at her niece and nodded.

"Yes. It does a little."

The girl reached out and patted Alex's arm lightly.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Alex said. "Thanks," she added.

"Aunt Alex?"

"What?" What _now_?

"I'm never going to have a baby."

Alex smiled. "You might change your mind. When you're older." She paused. Wise Aunt Alex. "A lot older."

The girl shook her head so hard her ponytails slapped the sides of her face.

"Nope, not me," she said very loudly in the small room. "Not if it comes out my _vagina—"_

"Emily!" the girl's mother, Alex's sister-in-law, suddenly appeared, face flushed, mouth tight. "For god's sakes! Sorry Alex. Is she bothering you?"

"No, no, it's fine—"

"Can't leave her alone for a _minute_—"

And so it went, interminably, until someone finally noticed Alex dozing off against her scratchy, lumpy pillow and they filed out, taking the baby with them. Alex waved and smiled and answered questions politely and said See you later, and Yes I'm fine, I'm _fine_, just tired.

Finally, finally, they were all gone and she was alone. She curled onto her side, knees pulled up to her chest and she was quite sure she'd never feel such physical pain again in her life.

Then her milk came in.

/

All the soft spots hurt.

He shuffled around his apartment very slowly for two days, wincing with every step, every movement, wondering if this humiliation was somehow cruelly foreshadowing his life 20 years from now. He ate soup and drank milk through a straw and cursed the turning point in his life that lead him down the dark, precarious path to law enforcement. He took baths instead of showers, wore only his bathrobe and slept, when he could, on his couch, which seemed to be kinder to his battered body than his bed, for some reason.

He tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. He turned on the TV but quickly lost interest. Nights were the hardest, when he tossed and turned and, for the first time in his life, listened to the noises around him, wondering if They were coming back to finish him off once and for all.

He kept a baseball bat beside his bed, but realized he'd be hard pressed to do much damage with it. He could barely lift his arms over his head.

Walking hurt, talking hurt, _breathing_ hurt. What he wanted, desperately, was someone to take care of him, to wrap their arms around him and just hold him.

Alex, he thought, and not for the first time since they'd fallen upon him with sticks and stones and fists and pipes. Oh, Alex.

/

He came to see her the night after she'd given birth, late, after everyone else had gone.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," she said, squinting. "What time is it?"

"Did I wake you? Sorry." He put the flowers on the tiny bedside table, sat in the tiny plastic chair beside her bed.

"No. I was just resting." She struggled to sit up but he put a restraining hand on her arm.

"Keep resting. I won't stay long," he said.

He'd seen the shine of tears, of course.

"Alex?" She looked up at him and for one terrible moment she was sure he was going to inquire about the state of her vagina. She couldn't hold the bubbling down anymore. She started laughing, hard. Oh. That hurt. He watched her.

"What is it?"

_What isn't it?_

"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me." She tried to stop laughing and ended up sounding like she was choking on something, like a chicken bone, but all she'd had to eat was Jell-O. Orange Jell-O.

The word "hormones" was on the tip of his tongue, but for the first time in his life he managed to not say something, and the not saying something was the best thing he never said in his life. He took her hand instead. She grasped it.

"There's nothing wrong with you. You're…exhausted. Physically, emotionally."

She nodded, held his hand tighter. "I am."

"Of course you are." He watched her scrub at her face, almost angrily, with her free hand, take two deep shuddery breaths and then look up at him. His heart twisted.

"Where's…uh…the baby?"

"With my sister. In the nursery. She's…feeding him, I think." The tears were threatening again and her throat worked against the lump. "They called him Samuel."

"Ah."

"Samuel Alexander."

"Right. Well…that's…nice, isn't it? Alexander, for…"

"Me. Yeah." She nodded.

"That's nice," he said again.

She nodded again. "It is."

"Good." He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. "Will they…call him Sam?" he asked politely.

"Uh…I'm not sure. Maybe?"

There was a soft knock at the door and then her sister was there, holding a tiny blue bundle in her arms.

"Oh…sorry." She smiled at Bobby, who smiled back. "I'm just about to leave. Did…did you want to hold him again?" She said this to Alex, who suddenly looked panicked at the thought.

"No, no. That's okay. Not…right now."

Bobby looked up, squeezed her hand very hard before letting go.

"May I?" he asked and Alex felt a welling.

"Of course."

"He's beautiful," he said in the near darkness and Alex's sister beamed and even though Alex felt it all had so little to do with her, she was happy and so proud, even just for the moment.

/

He thought about her a lot while he played convalescent. He thought about her a lot, anyway, but now he had more time than ever to think and in some ways it was good. In other ways it was bad.

He thought about her and the baby. Good.

He thought about what _their_ baby might look like. Bad.

He thought about going back to work, with her. Good, good.

He thought about the kidnapping. Bad. Very bad.

Almost losing her. Also bad. So, very bad.

How much he loved her. Good. No, bad.

He thought about her thinking about him. Too complicated.

He took his pills and lay down. Bad.

So bad.

/

They'd warned her about Day Three. Dreaded Day Three when the hormones dropped and the milk came in and everything, essentially, went straight to hell.

"You'll feel blue," the nurse had told her, rather cheerfully, as she'd been discharged.

"Blue?"

"Yep. Prolly cry a lot, and not even know why. Totally normal, though."

"Okay."

Blue.

Blue was mopey and depressed and melancholy. Blue was a summer sky, a Caribbean ocean.

This? This was.

Fuck.

After weeping on and off for six straight hours on Day Three she forced herself to take a long, hot bath in Epsom Salts, then fell into bed with her phone.

"Eames…are you all right?"

She was trying so hard not to cry. She nodded against the phone.

"Day Three," she mumbled.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"Why…are you crying?"

"I'm _not_."

"You're lying."

She sniffled.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What am I?"

"What…do you mean?"

"I'm not…a mother. I'm…what am I?"

"Eames—"

"I'm a fucking incubator, that's what I am."

"_Eames_—"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I'm…blue." She laughed.

"It's…okay." He wanted desperately to say the Right Thing. His mind was a blank.

"I…have to go."

"Why?"

"I have to…pump now."

"Pump now." He briefly pictured lifting weights. No, no idiot. That's _not_ what she—

"My…milk. I'm pumping for Samuel for a few weeks, at least."

"Ah. Right."

"I don't have a clue what I'm doing. This … contraption looks _medieval_. I'm not even sure where to stick it. Wish me luck."

He smiled.

"Good luck, Eames."

"Yeah."

She hung up. The Right Thing came to him.

_I love you._

/

"How are you feeling?" she asked, first thing, every time she talked to him. She talked to him every day he was off.

"Fine," he'd say on the okay days. Or, "Okay." Sometimes he said "All right." If he was in a particularly jocular mood he'd say, "With my fingers." She would snort. If it was a very bad day, and once or twice it was because he'd bumped his ribs getting into the tub, or had a horrible sleep because of the pain, he'd say, "Not great."

On a very bad day she showed up at his apartment with coffee and a celebrity gossip magazine.

"What's…this?" he glanced at the glossy cover, intrigued.

"It'll help pass the time. Believe me."

She sat on the couch. He eased himself down next to her.

"How's…uh…Sam?" he asked suddenly. She looked at him. Then she grinned.

"He's good! He's really good." She studied him. "What made you ask?"

"I don't know. I was just…remembering, you know, after you had him."

"You came to visit me," she said, almost shyly.

"Of course." He was surprised. Had she thought he wouldn't?

"He's turning five. Can you believe it?" She shook her head and sighed.

He couldn't. It seemed like…

"Bring a photo to work. A recent one."

She looked at him again. "Okay. I will." She smiled. His heart twisted harder than it should have.

She took his hand then and squeezed it.

"You're not a rat, Bobby. You know that, don't you?"

He shrugged and laughed but didn't pull away.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter anymore." He couldn't look right at her.

"Yes, it does."

He shrugged again, which made him wince a little. She noticed.

"They beat the shit out of you," she said quietly. She wouldn't let go of his hand.

"They tried," he said, attempting to sound positive. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to forget everything.

She kissed him instead and all he could do was remember.

/

He slid his hands over the impossible softness of her breasts. She kept her eyes open. She kept watching him. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend it was a dream, but it wasn't, it was very real and even though he hurt very much he didn't want to miss a single second, so he kept his eyes open, too, and watched her watching him.

He cupped the soft spot between her legs and she sighed and shifted to accommodate him.

No, he realized. Better than a dream, really.

She moved very slowly and gently and she kissed him everywhere, very softly so as not to hurt him, but suddenly nothing hurt anymore. He wanted to tell her that, but suddenly breathing in and out was all he could think about.

/

He lay awake long after she'd fallen asleep. He watched her, like he'd done that night in the hospital, amazed that she was _there_, next to him, quiet and breathing and warm and _there_.

But this time she was naked, which made a pretty big difference.

He wondered if she'd leave before morning. He hoped not. He wanted to make her breakfast, maybe, he had some eggs, he thought, and, at the very least, he wanted to wake up with her there, next to him. He lay down on his good side and slid his arm around her waist.

Because in the end his biggest soft spot was her, of course.

/

_Fin_


End file.
